


Welcome To My Planet

by JiM, kalena



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiM/pseuds/JiM, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalena/pseuds/kalena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: After Chuck Vs. The Suburbs, Chuck is forced to live under full-time watch.  His relationship with Sarah was already strained – now it's minced and shredded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome To My Planet

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: 3/2011: I didn't see this as dubious consent, but a reader did. YMMV.

****

Welcome To My Planet

 

Beckman makes it clear that it's the bunker or Sarah. Sarah and Casey are both there to back it up. Sarah says, "It's going to be fine, Chuck." Casey watches him like a hawk for a week before deciding he won't try to make a break for it.

There's nowhere to run.

They have a house, three bedrooms. Sarah said she was tired of living in a hotel room and wanted a real kitchen. The CIA didn't care about the price difference. It was probably cheaper than redecorating a bunker for the daily use of Chuck's brain. Somebody would have to feed him, buy him clothes and toiletries, and do all the things a normal man would do for himself in the outside world, plus three shifts to monitor him 24/7.

Any time he ever thought about living with Sarah, it had this fuzzy look around the edges, soft and inviting. He's wanted her so badly all this time -- infatuated, in love, weren't they really the same thing? This was his big chance. But like Autopia at Disneyland, where he had to be 52 inches tall to drive, everything changed by the time he grew up, and he didn't care any more.

Not caring makes him more sad than when he couldn't be with her in the first place.

Sarah isn't his girlfriend, she isn't his lover, and living with her pounds that home like an air hammer. The strangest thing is that nothing about her changed. She's still nice, still sweet, and sometimes she even looks at him with a softness around her mouth. Once or twice, he sees the shadow of longing in her eyes. It doesn't seem to matter.

He knows where she keeps her notes on everything he does. They're in a drawer in the desk in the bedroom she uses as an office. She doesn't have the kind of war room that Casey does. She doesn't even bother to lock up the notes, not that it would have stopped him from finding them. He doesn't know what to think about that.

Sometimes he corrects them, or writes dumb stuff in the margins next to

 _7:45 left for work_

 _8:03 Starbucks/latte_

like GOING TO THE MOON, BRB alongside a little cat face with a cakebox on it. She never laughed. Maybe she didn't get what it was supposed to be. He's not the world's best artist. But he thinks she might feel bad now he finally understands his world.

He knows he couldn't face being cooped up between slowly-moving-in gray walls, like some make-believe house of horrors, except, you know, real, and if he screws this up, he's going straight into that circle of hell. Neither Sarah nor Casey could stop it, and if he screws up badly enough, they won't even want to try.

This isn't a bunker. He keeps telling himself that.

All that matters is that he isn't underground, slowly going insane like Laszlo. That's his worst fear. He wakes up at night, scared to death from dreaming about it. Laszlo was angry and crazy and had the power to destroy the world. Chuck has that power. If some day he flashed and didn't tell . . . bad things could happen to good people. He doesn't ever want to not want to tell. That's a place more frightening than any bunker. He's lost his freedom, not his soul. He hopes he'll be brave enough to do something about it before his soul slips away, too.

What if, when he gets there, he doesn't care any more?

He misses Ellie so much her name hurts. She calls once in a while, but she's busy with wedding plans, and Chuck knows he has to get used to the way things are.

Sarah herself is oddly talkative. "You can tell me anything, Chuck," she keeps saying. "That's what I'm here for." Of course, that's not even remotely true. He can't risk complaining about what he has. Whenever he can't help thinking about the alternative, it leaves him in a cold sweat on the hot sidewalk.

So he keeps to his work hours, eats lunch with Morgan when he can, and doesn't talk to anybody he doesn't have to. He smiles at the customers. He's nicer than ever, because now that he knows where he stands, only the precipice matters. He's so far away from the Buy More world, and so close to the edge. After living with Sarah for weeks, he thought things would loosen up, but then she started going with him everywhere, even to the drugstore to pick up a bag of pretzels and a can of Coke.

Watching him.

He wonders whether General Beckman is on Sarah's case. It makes him more determined than ever to stay in line. Sometimes the line feels like it's wrapped around his throat, and getting tighter every day. But he isn't in a bunker.

Casey watches, too, his gaze more intense than before. Once he even asks Chuck how he's doing. Without a sneer or a disgusted look, it's more unnerving than Sarah's prying. Maybe the man's hoping for a truly sky-high screwup. Then he could finally be free. He's spending prime spy years babysitting, and he must be mighty damned sick of it. Ushering Chuck into a warm, cozy bunker would buy his own life back. Casey used to be an assassin, a hero, a warrior, the kind of person Chuck never thought was real. He only saw men like that in the movies.

Now there's one watching him, watching and waiting. Those bright eyes are blazing burn marks across the back of his head from over by the washers and dryers. He leaves work early, and since it's hard to get to sleep, plays Call Of Duty 3 -- with the door shut so it doesn't bother Sarah -- until nearly dawn. It used to be his favorite game to play with Morgan. He falls asleep with his head on the desk.

It's not long before Chuck stops going to the drugstore, stops going to the grocery store, stops doing everything except going to the Buy More. It's more work for Sarah to follow him around; maybe he shouldn't make her mad. He's too tired to run errands, anyway. He quits annotating her notes. Eventually he gets bored with the PS3, the Wii, and the X-box. He's so tired all the time; too bad he can't sleep.

He's careful to throw out the delivery boxes so he won't mess up her kitchen. She cooked him dinner a couple times, but he didn't know how to make small talk with Sarah, even over scallop risotto. Not when she's the last thing standing between him and a nameless, faceless life in solitary confinement.

When he flashed on Enrica Perla, in Los Angeles to make new connections for her family back in Sicily, they told him to stay in the car. It was so dark and stuffy and small and locked that he felt safe for the first time in ages, and he fell asleep. He didn't wake up until the thump of the magnet, and then the car was dangling over the auto crusher. When he did wake up all the way, he didn't scream for Casey and Sarah. He didn't scream at all. He didn't even try to open a window. It would have been so easy.

His guards saved the day. Sarah gave him a tremulous smile as he rolled out of the now-ruined car onto the pavement, his body congealed with fear, and he wishes he imagined the disappointment that crossed Casey's face.

Some nights he brings home a Nerd Herder and crawls out his first floor window to sleep in it, always waking up in the predawn light. He's pretty sure Sarah's never caught on. One Thursday evening he hears her whispering on the phone, though -- it has to be Casey, with her saying something about a problem. Some spy. He might not have much of an attention span any more, but he can still hear.

"My way's not working," she says. "We're going to have to do it your way."

It's over.

They don't come for him until Sunday.

He's been up for the whole weekend since getting dressed for work Friday morning. He didn't go in. He didn't bother to call in sick. Why spend one of his last days at the Buy More? Not that he had anything better to do. Sarah left the apartment Friday morning, after making noises about why wasn't he going to work, and he replied in whatever way seemed to make the most sense. Once she was gone, he took her coffeemaker. He spends the weekend sitting in his room, drinking coffee and staring out the window.

Where he's going, there won't be a window, and he wants to stay awake to enjoy this one.

On Saturday he takes his tie off, because he doesn't want to spend the rest of his life knowing he went there in the Nerd Herd uniform. He has more pride than that. The white shirt he can live with. He doesn't have enough energy to figure out what else might go with gray. They don't come for him on Saturday. He should be doing something more important than staring out the window and thinking about all the things he's done wrong. He'll have plenty of time for that in the future. But he can't stop.

On Sunday, they come for him. Though he tried his best to prepare mentally, it didn't work. He feels his stomach roll when Casey calls his name, but he gets up to meet his fate. On the way out of the room, he glances in the mirror. He looks like hell, which seems appropriate. His hair hasn't been cut in three months. It's standing up on one side and laying flat on the other. His eyes are red-rimmed and the crushed, sweaty white shirt is a coffeescape. His hands shake. He's become an insane street person. He reeks; he can smell himself.

The smell of fear is coming straight out of his pores.

It won't be so bad. It can't be as bad as he thinks.

Chuck risks a glance at them. Sarah looks sad. Casey is grim. He can respect that. Casey will do what he has to do.

"Bartowski! Straighten up!"

He automatically stands taller, turns his head away and waits for the needle.

"You dumbshit."

Three fingers turn his face. They do funny things to his skin. Maybe they leave an impression. Casey's always left a big impression. There's a muscular arm around his shoulders and Casey kisses him. It's a firm kiss, insistent, Casey demanding access. There's no possible way Chuck can deny him. He hasn't been touched, had a hug, in so long

. . . and now. Casey. Is kissing him.

He doesn't know what to do, so he doesn't pull away or make any sudden moves. He doesn't really want to, anyway.

 _Apocalypse Wow._

The touch of Casey's mouth is something Chuck never knew enough to want. Chuck's lips part under his gentle encouragement. Casey smells warm and sunny, like he's been out for a walk and just got in. Chuck wakes up enough to move, to grab the broad beam of his shoulders, hands spastic against layers of muscle and bone. Moments later he identifies the plush softness against his back, and the extra set of arms around them, as Sarah's.

"We ready?" Casey asks past his ear.

"Yes." He can hear the relief, and the smile.

"Then," Casey murmurs in Chuck's ear, "let's get you cleaned up."

They're in Sarah's massive master bath, but Casey dominates it effortlessly the same way he does everything else, making it seem a lot smaller. Is he as big as Chuck thinks, or is it the two years of hero worship? They have him stripped by the time the shower runs hot. He had no idea, before, that Sarah had a walk-in shower. He was never in her bathroom. He's never been inside her bedroom.

Sarah's in front, soaping him down with one of those puffy things like Ellie had, and it's great to feel clean again, but all he knows is _Sarah_ and _naked_ and _natural blonde_. It's already more than he can comprehend, and they've barely started.

Casey's behind him, holding him up against Casey's full-frontal front. It's just as well. His knees wouldn't work by themselves. He's so tired and wired that he's not freaked out, just strangely high, trembling all over. There's no thinking ahead, wondering what's going to happen next. That's probably good. There's unscented soap, and that's good, too. It doesn't interfere with the intoxicating blend of Casey and her perfume. Their exotic scents rise on the steam.

He lost interest in Sarah when she became his jailer, but everything looks different with her full breasts slippery against his chest and her belly teasing his cock.

"Hold him steady, John."

Casey's arms lock under Chuck's, lock and load, an X across his chest. Sarah clutches Casey's forearms to balance herself as she slithers against him. Up. Down. All of her beautiful pale skin is tinted pink by the light through her shower curtain, her soft breasts with their hard wet nipples flattened on his chest, his curly hair springing up in their wake. She goes all the way down. He leans gratefully against Casey's body, against his unyielding chest, and Casey's hard-on is hot against his ass. He thinks vaguely that it should bother him, but all his thinking never did him any good all these weeks.

Sarah doesn't bow her head to his cock the way his fevered brain begs her to. Instead she presses her breasts together; they surround him. The crown is wet and red between Sarah's breasts, a dot of fluid welling in its tip. She drops her head back, letting the spray off his body sluice the hair from her glowing face, and it's the sexiest thing he ever dreamed of, because he's got to be dreaming. Watching her breasts engulf his cock, with Casey braced solid against his back, he comes without a word, without a sound. The reflected shower spray washes the white drops from the hollow of her throat.

Only Casey's strength keeps him standing.

"Christ." It's Casey, and all the wonder Chuck feels is in his voice. "Sarah."

 

They wrap Chuck into something shiny _Casey's silk robe_ and help him rubberleg it to the tiny chair; apparently it's strong enough to hold him and Sarah both, because she straddles him like he's the chair. Oh, God, she's naked under that short white thing that barely covers her butt, and her – her -- she's wide open, her thighs on Chuck's, and if he reaches between her legs she'll be damp and sweet. Chuck is hard again already.

Her glance would set a pair of his khakis on fire. "I want my men clean-shaven." She's sultry. Chuck never heard it before. He wonders how many men have.

Should he? Why not? She just made him _come_. His fingers edge toward the hem of the robe to search out that secret, hidden place; they're moving without conscious intent. He gets a lot more conscious when he sees the razor in her hand.

"Lean your head back, and hold still." She lathers something creamy and flowery on his face. The fuzzy little robe makes a deep V between her breasts, and he knows now just how soft they are. Soft on soft. He wants to hold them through the robe, feel their weight, rub her tender red nipples with white.

Casey's hands are in his hair. Hands that could break him without thought massage his scalp and comb through his too-long hair. It feels so intensely good it's nearly as nice as Sarah on his lap, drawing a girly purple razor up the three days of stubble. The razor's better than his. Rotating head, he thinks. Nice, nice is not the word for what this is, but he doesn't have any other words. Words left with the resurgence of his erection. The rest of him is limp, but his cock is hard.

Casey straightens Chuck's head with a huge hand and returns to playing with his hair. Casey's cutting his hair. It's a surprise. The scissors whisper and snick. Any other time he might have wondered, before now, what Casey was doing. Sarah nods slyly and he forgets about hair. He forgets about everything.

He's not even sure how they get to the bed. They're on it; he's on top of her, kissing her like he's trying to be her last breath. Casey grabs his hips, pulls him back and up, and he's panting, confused.

"You had some fun, now it's our turn."

Sarah's dreamy smile is riveting as she crabs up toward the pillows. The move looks graceful on her. She's still wearing the fuzzy robe, but it's open all the way. She has her pubic hair trimmed in a heart. Chuck whimpers. Her knees lift slowly; his eyes widen as they do. It's – she's so beautiful, so perfect; there's a scar near her hipbone that is the pinnacle of what skin should be, self-healing, the fragile body's safety net, and he kisses it. Sucks at it. Draws a spiral around it with the tip of his tongue that brings him closer and closer to the heart. He exhales warmth into her curls to hear the small noise she makes.

The smell of her is the best thing ever.

He's on his knees, it's not a good place for his neck --

"You're killin' me, here. Get to work."

What would've been a snide comment, if not for the sandpaper in Casey's voice, stops short as Chuck lifts her ass in his hands and rubs his face in the swell of her pussy. She's sweet, all right, and hot, wet. She's excited. Her excitement makes him crazy. He abandons nice and goes after her like a popsicle, licking, sucking, and pushing his whole face against her.

"Chuck! I've been – been waiting. A long time." Her voice wavers. He's glad. Even if his mouth was available, he's beyond talking. "Come on, Chuck, I can't wait any longer."

Sarah. She's whining. For him, for his mouth on her, for the orgasm he can feel rising in her tension. She's built for this, made for it. So is his face; it's made for this, too. There were other ways that human bodies could've happened, but this is best. There is Intelligent Design. His nose is more important now he knows its true purpose, to push against Sarah's clit and make her moan. Breathing isn't merely optional, it's irrelevant. It's so clear now.

Casey pushes a finger into his ass.

It's strange enough all by itself, but then Casey does something that sets off a cascade reaction, swirls of glitter in his blood. He lurches forward and moans into Sarah. Lifting his head, his face covered with her scent and her sticky wetness, he looks into her eyes. They're feverish. He's the one burning up. It only gets hotter as more pressure works its way into him. It makes him want to come. He needs to come. Sarah does, too. She clutches at his hair. It'd work better if they hadn't cut it; her fingers slide through with only a tug.

"Do it, please, do it."

He does.

She's feet-flat on the bed, shoving up against his jaw, his mouth. This is what bump and grind is all about. She doesn't need his propping-up hands any more, so he puts two fingers inside her and presses up like Jill liked. She likes it, too, enough so that she hardens every muscle and cries out, hips still moving. He settles her back to the bed, soothing her with his hands and his kisses. He rests his head on her thigh, watching the muscles flutter along her flat belly.

The pressure inside Chuck vanishes. "Fuck her." It's not an insult, it's an order. "I want to see you fuck her." Just hearing that in Casey's voice makes his head explode. The tone is rough but the hands are gentle, helping Chuck to pull her down, fold her up, tilted so, so close to his cock. Her legs lock around his back. She's so strong, and it turns him on like _whoa_. He grunts when Casey rolls the condom over his length, tightening his fingers down on Chuck's cock as Sarah tightens hers on his shoulders.

"Hold on, stud. Let's give Sarah a good time." Casey kisses him as he squeezes, guiding him to Sarah. He sucks at Casey's mouth as frantically as he'd been sucking at her. Casey pulls away enough to take a long lick across his wet cheek. Weirdly, it still feels like there's a hand around him.

"Mmmm," Casey says. His eyes are warm. " That's good. You're doing great."

Chuck's embarrassed that Casey's praise could mean so much to him at a time like this, but embarrassment shatters as Sarah stretches to fit his girth. It's been a while for her, too, maybe. "Feels so good, Sarah, Sarah, yeah." With his head down, he can see himself disappearing, inch by inch, into her bush. There's a black thing around the rim of the fake-flesh-toned condom. "What?"

"Don't worry, we'll let you come. Later."

Chuck can't worry about strange sex things. There's so much of a sex thing going on already, there's not much extra attention to spare. He's inside her, and she likes it, digging her fingers in and moving in the short jerks that are all she can get with her behind banked on his thighs.

Now Casey's behind him again and he's rocking to Casey's roll, big hands commanding his hips so that Sarah gets the best. Will Casey fuck Sarah too, and will he get to watch? It would be so hot, they're so beautiful, they'd be gorgeous together, and he's wondering, too, why he doesn't feel bad about that, when he understands that Casey's going to fuck him instead. He should've heard that message loud and clear, but not everything's clicking in his head.

The fingers are back, but just for a little reassurance before something enormous starts to push its way in, and Chuck is shocked to feel himself giving way, letting that thing in, wanting it. He sucks wind when Casey breaches him, but Sarah had to do it, so he grits his teeth. It's like everything with Casey, really; it hurts some, but he wants it more than it hurts. Or maybe because it hurts. Maybe he's more messed up than he knew.

If only he could see Casey's face, he'd know what that meant. Maybe.

After a couple thrusts for all three of them, the pain's bled away into a colored swirl of sensation. There are shades in here that Chuck never saw before. They're iris blue and the myriad soft tones of skin and the blood that pulses underneath it. Sarah. He could sink into Sarah and just keep going. She could swallow him up and he'd be lost in her mysteries. Between the two of them, they are annihilating him.

Maybe that was their plan all along - to strip him down to nothing and remake him. He's seen John's hands strip down a pistol and reconfigure it in the blink of an eye. Sarah doesn't even need a pistol - she can turn the most ordinary object into something strange and wholly unexpected, something lethal. He wonders what she's going to make him into that the Intersect didn't already, that crazy risks and pointed guns and John Casey didn't make him into already. He doesn't even know what that could be.

He's never been his body. It's not something that he ever cared about, much, as long as it didn't hurt. This is completely different. He's only his body. It's all that matters, all that counts.

Sex with them - he may be hazy but even he knows this isn't lovemaking -- is going to destroy who he is. It already has. He hears himself moan John's name. The man he was this morning couldn't have done that. Sarah pulls his head down and stares directly into his eyes before she kisses him gently and then . . . twists. He screams. He tries to. His senses are going off like a fire alarm, shrieking down the empty halls of his mind. But Casey's hand is firm and hot on the back of his neck and Sarah's breast is hard-nippled and sweet in his mouth and he is fuller than he has ever been, even as they empty out the last bits of him.

Sarah twists and tightens one more time and he freezes, limbs locked. Black thing or no, he's coming, and then he's gone. From far away, he hears a yell, but Casey doesn't stop, doesn't lose his rhythm. He doesn't spare Chuck. There's no mercy, none to be found.

Chuck hears himself mumbling something even as Sarah is kissing his temple and making little cooing noises that are supposed to comfort him. "I don't love you. Either of you."

John shoves deep into him one last time, then he's coming, still smooth, still in control, still deep in Chuck. "You will," he whispers from between gritted teeth.

"Shhh," Sarah says, and he knows she's saying, "You already do."

He's just a body now, a tired, sticky, fucked-out body. With a brain full of enemy agents' dossiers and plans for things he wouldn't have believed in his nightmares. They push and pull and arrange his blissed-out limbs just where they want him. The metaphor for his life makes him giggle quietly, helplessly. He's limp between them as they curl around him, and at least here, he's . . . safe. These people own him tonight, and they won't let anyone else in.

All he had to give up was everything.

He sleeps.

 

It's 10:30 by the glowing red numbers. The drapes are still drawn; Chuck's alone in Sarah's king-sized bed. It's really big with just him. He feels empty . . . and sore. Like Salamis after Athens and Sparta blew in, destroyed the defenders, carted off their dead, and then everybody was gone, leaving only the trampled battlefield behind. His head is clearer than it's been for a long time, though; he must've slept fourteen hours. That probably helped.

Last night? He's not sure if that really helped, or if it will just hurt more later. He's heard of a goodbye kiss, but Casey and Sarah always made things bigger and more explosive. One thing last night did do -- he's still wobbly. Parts of him ache that he didn't even know existed. Drapes open, the sun burns spots across his retinas. It's beautiful to see.

Casey can cut hair. Apparently he can do anything. It's neat and tidy, better than he can remember. He looks older. He feels older. He feels like he knows something other people don't know, although he's not sure what that is. Strangely enough, the Intersect never did that to him. The Intersect acts on him. Casey and Sarah act in him. They always did, just not quite like this.

Mmmmm. Bacon. The smell hooks him by the stomach, and he's starving.

"Morning, Chuck." Sarah, at the kitchen stove, has her game face on, the bright smile that she wears with her Orange Orange outfit. It's a shock -- an aftershock, boulders still slamming down from last night's earthquake. She was never over-emotional, or even emotional enough, but this is kind of psycho. She gives him a peck on the cheek. June Cleaver's in the kitchen, and by God, Nick At Nite has a lot to answer for. He puts his arms around her, holds her close. Why not? He's got nothing to lose, and it's not like she doesn't have a choice. She's got knives strapped to her body. She could drive his nose into his brain with one punch.

Even underneath the Aquafresh, he can still smell her musk on his nose, his upper lip. There's a reason why he didn't wash his face. He strokes her smooth, muscular arms, the wedge-shaped bones of her shoulders, and gets a real kiss with tongue, slow and lazy. He can't help feeling it all over. Her sticky lip gloss catches minutely against his lips. She'd probably let him slide his hands under her tiny little shirt and make her nipples stand up like they did last night. She might even let him suck them through her lacy bra until they're wet and slippery, until her panties are wet and slippery. Pull the shirt back down, go to Orange Orange like nothing happened.

Knowing he left her that way would be so hot.

She's so, so very pretty, so real and solid in his arms. "Eggs?" she asks. "Pancakes?"

"Thanks for making breakfast."

She grins. "Don't get used to it."

Jesus. He was feeling a lot more human, a little horny, and grateful for last night, but wow. Being flip about this is cruel in a way he never associated with Sarah. Screw it. It's his last meal. "Don't worry, I won't." If a streak of bitterness comes out, he means it to. He doesn't have any knives or any mad fighting skillz, but for this one meaningless thing he should get a real choice, too. "Is there a steak?"

"Okay, I get it, you're irritable when you're starving." She has an adorable giggle. He's never heard that before, either. "There are a couple steaks, but they're in the freezer. How about for dinner, instead?"

"Dinner?" What dinner?

"Yes, dinner, it happens when the little hand is on the – " and he stops listening.

Casey fills the doorway.

Chuck's brain is breaking. His heart is breaking. He had sex with these two people last night. They held him and touched him and made the bad things go away for a little while. They've both been good to him. Why are they dragging this out?

Casey has a different idea. He's looking into Chuck's eyes, a hand on his shoulder. Then, seemingly satisfied, cups his cheek and kisses him . . . in a deep, searching way that makes Chuck glad he brushed his teeth. His libido bubbles like champagne, and his half-awake cock rises a little more. Good thing his jeans are loose. Casey ruffles Chuck's hair. "Not bad for a quick and dirty job," he murmurs into the nearest ear.

Then he moves on to Sarah, pins her against the counter, and lays one on her, too, slow and tight. She makes a choked noise, and why shouldn't she? The most beautiful, buff man Chuck's ever known in real life is Hot Ward to her Sexy June. The chemical reaction is happening before his eyes; they're ready for subsonic combustion. Casey's hand is taking up a huge swath of Sarah's pert butt, and it looks like he's about to lift her. Chuck can't bear to watch them do it on the counter.

"Look," he says desperately, and they actually do look. "I just, I need to know when I have to go."

Sarah looks blank. Casey does, too, then says, "I called you in. You don't have to go. I told them you have the plague." Casey's smirk is like always, but his hand is still on Sarah's butt and his eyes are twinkling.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

They break apart with identical looks of confusion, and how did Chuck just make them quit kissing?

"Please." His voice cracks. He sounds so stupid. "Forget breakfast. Let's just go."

"Go where?" Sarah.

"Wherever it is. The bunker. I'll never know, will I? I disappear, and I wake up with a headache in a padded room."

"What are you babbling about?" Casey.

"I'm saying I can't watch. I'm losing it." Tears well up in his throat. "I'm saying thanks for the Long Goodbye, but no thanks. I want – no, I need -- to get this over with."

Sarah's staring at him with her mouth open, looking equally fishlike and kissable, when the wall slaps him in the back. On an ordinary day, he wouldn't be so happy that his butt didn't take the brunt of it.

"There is no bunker, you moron." Casey's face in his, scowling. That feels normal. Nothing at all like the last twenty-four hours. "There never will be." His growl turns Chuck into a tuning fork. "Not for you, not ever."

"What – why – " Chuck's never been so happy to back down from Casey's wrath. He never got a faceful of anything he really wanted from Casey until yesterday. "What was last night all about, then?"

"Oh, Chuck." Sarah looks stricken. Casey pulls her in, and they're having a group hug. His body leans into their warmth, their welcome. "Don't you know we'd do anything to keep you safe? Even from yourself?"

"From myself?" He feels his eyes go round. "You thought I, that I would, uh, hurt myself?" Not like it never crossed his mind.

"Things have been pretty tough for you lately." Casey shrugged, sounding strangely distant for someone plastered right to him. "Sarah was worried."

"So if last night wasn't the big kiss off, then what? A modern replacement for electroshock therapy? An intervention, with lube? Or, wait, a bonding exercise! You know, everybody at the Buy More would sign up for that one." Where they'd get the extra women was another question. The spokesmodel audition lure wouldn't work twice.

"Look at it however you want to. Last night was us. We're not going anywhere." Casey, the Biggest Billy Goat Gruff. "You're not going anywhere."

"Something's been bothering you ever since we moved here. We could both tell."

He always was lousy at keeping secrets. "You could get on with your lives. You don't have to be here. I was . . . " Afraid. The word he doesn't want to say is hanging in the air; he's pretty sure they heard it.

"No. We don't have to." Casey's got an air of finality that says this conversation's over. He jerks his head toward the stove. "Let's eat."

He thinks about that. He thinks about it while Casey and Sarah do a long-limbed cha-cha around the kitchen, putting spy efficiency to work on breakfast. Casey makes French toast while Sarah crisps bacon and heats the plates. Casey knows how to make napkin birds. Chuck blinks and shakes his head. Sarah adds a vase of flowers. As far as he can tell, she pulled it out of her cute little butt. It doesn't seem much like her. A centerpiece candle made out of C4, maybe, with a pretty circle of ninja stars.

Why is she doing this? He knows so little about her. Or Casey, for that matter. There's got to be something he's missing, some way to understand. If he can't figure out what's going on, the future's not looking so bright. The Intersect will always rule, even if he never goes underground. If he's not dead, he'll be . . . handled. By somebody.

What he always wanted from life didn't involve being trapped with people who manipulate him with sex for unknown reasons. At the very least, he should know the reasons.

He wonders what Sarah wrote in her notes about last night.

 _8:15 shower sex w/JC, SW_

 _8:30 more sex_

 

He wonders what he'd write about last night. He could Tweet it.

For once, his mind experiences a moment of silence.

It's easy enough to see who people are by their Twitter feeds – who they are, what they do, what they want. Nobody says they're out mugging tourists or busy cooking up a nice pot of meth, but most people don't do that anyway. Casey and Sarah aren't anybody's middle ground; they don't advertise what they do and what they want. If they won't expose themselves – well, okay, they did that in their own special way – he'll have to. If Chuck wants some answers, he's going to have find his own. He can take notes, too.

Casey rubs his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get my equipment set up."

He starts walking, and Chuck gets up to follow without thinking twice about it. He's still a little out of it, but he'd do anything Sarah asked, too. Anywhere, any time, and he knows it. The stretch of his thighs after sitting makes him wince. "What equipment?"

"Surveillance. Computers. All of it."

 _Day One, Post-Apocalypse: Installment Plan_

The downstairs family room, the one with the walkout, is filled with boxes. They're visible through the open door as both men walk down the stairs. Casey wasn't hanging around for brunch. He's here for good. Chuck is so completely baffled he latches onto the strangest idea so far: Casey's going to let him touch the NSA-issue super-secret spy gear. It's more unbelievable than Casey letting him touch . . . him. He stops and stares.

"What? General Beckman told us you were better than her whole squadron of geeks. Shouldn't that be good enough for me?"

"I. I. Yeah. Sure." He hadn't known that.

The door shuts behind them; Chuck is reminded of the early days when Casey would drag him off to tell him Sarah was dangerous. This isn't that. It's something else Casey doesn't want Sarah to hear. "Are you okay?"

There's no comprehensive answer for that.

Tiny lines fan out from the corners of his eyes as Casey holds his arm, running a thumb up and down, and says, "I need to know if you're in any pain. It's important."

Nothing that having the biggest penis Chuck's ever seen in the flesh . . . Wait. Full stop. Casey's penis has been in his flesh. Go ahead, use the real word. If he can do it, he can say it. Fucking him. Casey was fucking him. What's he supposed to say to this man who isn't a stranger, but is so much stranger than he used to be? "Mentally, or physically?"

The lines disappear. A big fat smirk appears, and with it, a snort. "Like I'd ever care what was going on in that head of yours." The hand rises and pats him sharply on the cheek, not a slap, not quite a caress.

Like a kaleidoscope locking in the next design, Casey is Casey again, the same Casey Chuck thought he knew, even if he has gone where no man has gone before. Except . . . what he just said was such a blatant lie that even Chuck recognizes it. Unfortunately he can't engage his brain fast enough, and the mouth works first. Out comes, "Go ahead, admit it. You love me, John Casey." Jesus, what is _wrong_ with him?

Nothing's wrong with Casey; he's turned away, but Chuck knows that noise was a raspberry.

He spends the rest of the afternoon rafting on a river of supertech, going "Whoa!" and, "This is awesome," and chattering off and on about spoilers for the upcoming Star Trek movie. "So, how do you feel about green women?"

"Better in bed than green vegetables."

For a man who went two years without a woman -- or anybody else, to Chuck's knowledge -- in his bed, Casey talks a good game. Senor Superspy is Captain Kirk in his dreams. Wait, Casey's got more than dreams, as of yesterday. That makes two of them.

"I think there are women out there who would argue that." He's astonished to hear Casey laugh. "Did you want me to go out and get you a couple more surge protectors?" At Casey's look, he says, "Yeah, plague, right, but – and don't tell anybody this – Buy More is not the only electronics store."

"It's the one we have a discount at. Besides, you've been living here without a top-notch security system for – what, now? I want this taken care of immediately. If you think it's important, I'll pick up a couple tomorrow."

Later, Chuck mostly remembers how he felt when Major John Casey asked him for help -- like he could leap tall buildings.

 

 _Day 2, Post-Apocalypse: Buy More To Get More_

They both have to be at work to open the next day, so they leave together in QV2. The most famous boat afloat has nothing on the Crown Victoria, and it's the second Vic, so Chuck figures the name is fair; he just doesn't say it out loud. He's got that much awareness of his mortality. Sarah leaves the house with them, putting on her makeup in the passenger side mirror.

He went to bed early last night after watching Quantum Of Solace with them. It was weird. Since he still wasn't sure what they would talk about, it made a reasonable . . . first date. Only in Chuck's life did the first date come after the menage a trois. Now that he thought about it, it was kind of an overall improvement. He crashed instantly in his own bed, shoveling zzzs to pay off his Stanford loan-sized sleep debt, and half-woke later, stunned and snuffling, with Casey's shoulder in his eye. "Flurghmph."

"Your bed's too small."

He was asleep again before he was all the way horizontal. It was strange and wonderful to wake up bookended by the two of them. He and Casey are a little late for work.

To his surprise, Sarah follows them from the locker area onto the floor of the store. The whole staff is milling around like zombies, waiting for the doors to open. They all perk up and a murmur washes through them when Sarah goes on tiptoe to kiss Casey thoroughly. Casey wraps one massive arm around her narrow shoulders, the other hand cupping her behind and pulling her into his crotch, and gives as good as he gets.

There's a low, "Hey. I thought she was Chuck's girlfriend."

The slap of humiliation is so painfully hot he thinks blisters rise on his skin. He's looking around for the most concealed escape route when Casey, a possessive hand warm on Chuck's lower back, gives him a little push toward Sarah. The hand stays to play, thumb inside his waistband, as Chuck leans into her kiss. He loses touch with everything except the smell of her hair, slippery polyester up and down her rib cage, and the tiny happy spark of her teeth in his lower lip.

There's hooting and applause by the time they break it up.

By God, if this is their new cover, then he's doing it. Still a little shaky, since Sarah's mouth is a weapon of mass erection -- he's pretty sure the guys watching them are unanimous in that; Chuck needs a gas mask for the testosterone -- he slides a hand behind Casey's neck and pulls him in. Fingers spread on Chuck’s face, Casey's kiss is lighter, more gentle and careful, and all the more convincing because of it. Chuck nearly believes it himself. Before they're done, the hoots die to a respectful, or possibly shocked, silence.

Sarah sashays out the front doors as the waiting customers trickle in.

As Casey steers him, dazed, toward the Nerd Herd desk, the bubble of silence is broken by Lester's whine. "What does John Casey have that I don't have?"

"Mild obsessive compulsive disorder, a car from the Bronze age, and a creepy fascination with the Beastmaster?" Morgan offers, bumping shoulders.

"That's it. I'm getting a grill."

 

 _Day 6, Post Apocalypse: Daddy Dearest_

"Is he all right?"

Sarah's voice was steady but her face was white, and she backed up two steps to the counter, hanging on to the edge. She looked like she was going to faint. Casey, he thought, and covered the kitchen floor with his mind blaring _Danger, John Casey_ in that stupid robotic voice. Sometimes his head really . . . Casey was supposed to be at work, but when did that mean anything?

"What's wrong?" he whispers, expecting her to ignore him like she's always done when she's getting intel. Instead, she looks up at him with fear in her eyes and lifts a hand. She's not exactly grabbing for him, but she's not pushing him away, and she's never reached out to him for anything short of imminent death. He folds his hands around her slender one before she can take it back.

"Yes, please, I – " and to Chuck she whispers, "paper." Whatever she's looking at is on the other end of the phone, and he grabs the pad and pen off the refrigerator, at only arm's reach for Sarah. He's never seen her so untethered. She hands him the phone, too. Now he's really worried.

"Are you there?" The voice on the other end is calm, concerned, professional.

"Hello," he says automatically, "I'm Sarah's -- " and there's just no word for exactly what he is; he could rattle off five minutes worth and it still wouldn't clarify anything. "I'm with Sarah," and he copies the dictated address and phone number. The woman on the other end doesn't seem surprised that she's suddenly talking to someone else. It probably happens a lot. It's a hospital in Atlanta. He should feel guilty that he's so glad it's a hospital in Atlanta.

Because the only person Sarah knows, really knows, any more -- besides Casey -- is her dad.

"Mr. Feldman will be in surgery soon. He's very fortunate to be at one of the top heart and cardiovascular health centers in the country. The number I gave you will reach the fourth floor nurse's station, but he won't be out of surgery for at least two hours, and he'll need to rest for a bit after that."

"May I have your name, please? Joelle Blakely in Admissions. Thank you. I really appreciate your call." He flips the phone closed and turns to Sarah, and because, yeah, he finally did pick up some of this spy stuff, he's saying, "We should call Emory University Hospital and see if she really – " He stops. Sarah's looking as calm and efficient as usual. She's sitting at the table making a list, like she's completely fine. Chuck wonders if he's seeing things.

"Would you do that for me? Make sure Daddy's really there, too. Yell when you find out. Also, please call John and let him know what's going on. I have to get ready, in case this is real. I'll need to book a ticket as soon as possible."

"Can't the CIA just . . . fly you?"

"How does that fit under my cover of 'food service menial making ends meet by sleeping with two men'?"

Teasing him, like nothing just happened, and he's tempted to follow up with a comment about how their ends have been meeting undercover with thrilling results, but there's something more important at stake. "I'm going with you."

"No, you're not." She doesn't need to be so surprised. "You have to go to work in twenty minutes."

"For five years I've been working at a disposable job. You said it yourself, Sarah. If we were really with you, we'd be with you. In fact, Casey's coming, too."

"No, you're not. This is my business, and mine alone." But he can tell that something, her spy sense or maybe even a real, if deeply buried, need to have somebody around in an emergency, has her backing down. "Make those calls."

It's real, all right, unless the whole hospital's in on it. He even called the third floor nurses' station to verify that Mr. Feldman was expected. Casey's home in eight minutes, and Chuck already has both of them packed. All three are on the way to the airport in another ten. He doesn't know how she did it, but within the hour they're in the air. Gently he pries her strained fingers from the armrest, shoves the thing up, and takes her hand. He's glad to see Casey take the hint, and the hand, on her left.

She doesn't crack again until the hospital. "Daddy!" She's in his arms in a heartbeat, and the _ow, ow_ that flashes in his eyes doesn't matter as much as the fact that she's there.

The look of . . . what is that, really, on her dad's face? Love for Sarah, of course; even if the man had quite the bad-guy past, and did fatherly as bad as Chuck's own dad, he truly loves Sarah. Chuck knew that already. But for Chuck and Casey, there was something that looked almost like . . . relief. Or maybe satisfaction.

"Well, well, if it isn't Copface and Schnook, still hanging around my little girl. It's good for the brains of the operation to have some muscle behind her." He eyes Chuck with an _even you._

Chuck carefully shakes his hand, trying not to jostle anything important. "We're a team, Mr. Feldman." He grins in acknowledgement of the new name. "And you look pretty good for a guy who just had a balloon in his heart."

"Yeah, but I had to wait for them to send in the clowns," he said, winking at Sarah. He's so cheerful Chuck wonders if they have him on the good drugs.

Casey, of all people, steps up to be the sensitive guy. "We're going out to get something to eat. I guess you're having heart-healthy." They get waved off with a wry look as Sarah pulls up a chair to the side of the bed.

They're not two minutes out the hospital doors when Chuck flashes so hard on a guy in a blue jacket that he's weak-kneed and nauseated, grabbing at Casey's arm.

"What?" Casey can't decide between concern and irritation.

"That guy, the one right ahead of us. He's Jared Stenholm, wanted for murder and kidnapping in three states."

"Oh, Christ, we don't have time for this."

It's the first time he's ever heard Casey bitch about a takedown. Now he knows he was right to sign Casey up for this trip. He really cares about Sarah, too.

"We'll make it fast," Casey directs. "You get in front of him to block the view of the oncoming pedestrians. I'll hit him from behind. We'll have the FBI pick him up at the hospital."

Chuck doesn't see Casey's elbow coldcock Stenholm as he stops dead in front of the much shorter man, but he hears it. It's a kind of hollow thud. Casey's yell of, "Man down!" collects a small crowd around the unconscious man, and Chuck falls back on the girly-scream. "Somebody call an ambulance!" Anybody, as long as it's not one of them. They stick around until they hear the sirens, then melt away toward the shops down the block as Casey calls it in. It's a job well done.

They're back with the food in twenty minutes; back in Burbank in twenty-four hours.

Two days later he comes home to find Sarah at the kitchen table. The other shoe, he thinks, just hit the floor. She managed to hold it all in pretty well the whole time they were in Atlanta, and after that she acted like everything was fine, except he heard her get up in the night and wander around. She must have been sitting at the table for hours, eyes glassy, a cold, half-drunk cup of coffee in front of her. Her face is blotchy and she looks like driftwood, beat up and brittle.

She was so out of it she didn't even hear him come in. "Sarah, are you okay?" He's crouched next to her before she can answer, and he should have known she'd lash out when cornered.

"Get out," she snaps. "Can't a person get some privacy around here?" She gets up too slowly, it almost hurts to watch, and he's got an arm around her as she stumbles a little. Still, she tries to push him away. Her hands are icy. "I don't want you to see me like this!"

He knows it's one of the truest things she's ever said to him. "It's okay. Sarah, it's okay. You're so beautiful that I don't even know what to do with you." That got him a choked-off . . . noise, of some kind. "Come on. You've been under a lot of stress lately."

"That's my job." She almost sounded normal, though she wouldn't look at him. "I don't mash potatoes for a living."

"But it's your life, too. You still have to live. You can't avoid the hard parts, no matter what you do. And a sick dad is a really hard thing." He hopes she doesn't ponder that spew of nonsense too long. "Let's go sit down someplace comfy." He steers her into the living room and tries not to plop them on the gray leather couch. "Relax." Gradually she does, taut muscle almost creaking as she softens, just a little, against him.

"What is it?" Chuck fingers the hair away from her forehead and pulls her halfway onto his lap. It feels good, her sleek, strong weight on his cock, and he tries not to think about that. What's going on in her head is way more important than what's going on in his groin. He doesn't expect the sob that slips her leash.

"He was alone." She swallows the next sob with a shudder. "Daddy was. The maid found him in his hotel room. He was one Do Not Disturb sign away from being . . . dead." Her voice is rising. "Don't you get it? He's alone. He has nobody."

Not, "I should have been there." She knows better than that. Even if her father hadn't been a grifter, he's always been a drifter, and she was lucky to be in one place for a couple of her high school years. He was never willing to settle down for her sake. Her dad loved her, but he threw her to the wolves. He never thought about what might happen to his young daughter if he went to prison.

Somebody should think about Sarah for a change.

"You're not alone. I'm here for you. Casey's here for you." There wasn't any way to sound more certain than he felt. "We're both going to look out for you, always. You'll never be alone again." If he thought that would make her feel better, he was _so_ wrong. Her long pink nails are digging into his arms as she cries, her face pressed into his neck. She's making painful noises and gasping for breath, tears smearing under his collar. Oh, crap, what now? He doesn't have a clue.

"Big girls don't cry," she chokes out, still trying to get it together.

Not for the first time, Chuck wishes he could punch her father in the mouth. Sarah was the only good thing he'd made in his whole life. "They do, too. Everybody cries." He never told her what he said in those last few minutes before they all left The Man Formerly Known As Jack Burton, and she didn't ask, but maybe this was a good time. "Your dad had tears in his eyes when I promised him that we'd always be here to watch your back." He holds her close, hands spread across the wooden expanse of her back.

A long, ragged sigh releases some of her tension. After a while, her breathing evens out. "I'm so tired," she whispers, and she's asleep in minutes. He sits there, holding her weight, while the world outside goes dark. It could be the only chance he gets to carry some of her burden. When Casey comes home, he puts his muscle to good use and carries her upstairs. She mumbles something as they put her to bed, but doesn't wake as they slide in, one on either side.

 

 _Day 14, Post Apocalypse: Pole-Axed_

"It's my birthday. I'd like my tiger by the tail now, please," he says, still hopeful. In his truck Casey carried around a book of short stories that had _The Lady, Or The Tiger_ in it, which -- who knew Casey'd read a book – "Hey, I get bored sometimes," much less one like that, and Chuck's been teasing him about it.

With no answer, he rambled on. "Oh, wait, got that already. I live it." He's been dropping hints for two weeks straight, and nobody ever accused him of being subtle. "I'm ready for the trip to Basel, or possibly to the Santa Monica pier." Who knew what spies would come up with? Somehow, he's sure it'd be interesting. Except . . . neither of them made more than noncommital noises when he mentioned it, like his birthday was such a non-event they couldn't be bothered.

And maybe it was, to them. He still doesn't know when either of their birthdays really is. Why hadn't he simply checked Casey's wallet? He left it on the bedside table every night. Okay, Chuck wanted to be told. To be trusted. Besides, what did ID mean to spies? They probably had a dozen driver's licenses apiece, all different. And the day is already over, with Sarah upstairs in her office and Casey helping him stack the dishes in the dishwasher.

There was no birthday cake.

"Not as tame as you seem to think." In honor of his special day, maybe, Casey leaves off the, ". . . you idiot." Come to think of it, Casey hasn't really said anything like that in a while. "I need you to come downstairs and give me a hand."

"Okay." Well, crap. He took a rain check on Chinese with Morgan, claiming a date with his roommates -- he likes to think of them as lovers, but would never say _that_ out loud -- because he hoped there would be one. Now, for real excitement, he has another opportunity to be the in-house nerd. On Tuesday or Saturday that would give him loads of satisfaction, but tonight? Not so much.

They walk past all the tech, Chuck trailing behind. Casey opens the door at the west wall, which is a surprise in itself. At first, he'd been too depressed and crazy to bother checking out the house. Lately he's been stumbling around in a sex-moistened haze if he doesn't need all of his brain cells just to stay alive.

Chuck's been living here for months, and there are rooms he's never been in.

He thought it was a mechanical room, filled with the furnace and air conditioning ducts or whatever moving parts go inside houses. It's not. It's another bedroom, a big one . . . of course, it's under the master. There's a king-sized bed in it, although not much else. It's the not-much-else part that's truly . . . interesting. A slice of light from the open door pings off something thin, tall and metallic in the middle of the room. He stops. "Uh, Casey, is this your version of the Batcave?"

The touch of sweetness in Casey's wicked smile makes Chuck blink. Casey doesn't smile that much anyway; he's not even used to a flash of teeth, much less this. "Come on, Chuck. Even you're not that naïve."

"I know it's a pole. I'm not all that naïve any more." He's just never seen this kind in real life before. He didn't even know real life came with poles. He thought they only lived in sleazy strip joints and their upscale brethren, expensive strip joints. Now there's one in the house he lives in. Was this always here, too? What else was here? "Did I miss something? Why is there a pole in this room I've never been in? Do you and Sarah have a side business I should know about?"

Casey laughs, and it rumbles out of his chest like a Harley. "Hell, no. With Sarah? You couldn't miss it. The whole neighborhood couldn't miss it. There'd be lines around the house and down the block. But if she ever needed a lot of money . . ."

A low bass beat starts, rising up very softly from nothing. He doesn't see the speakers, must be recessed somewhere, but they're quality workmanship. The door opens and he hears a whining overlay the bass; it's a rack of lights, stage lights, lowering from the ceiling. Wow. This setup took a while to rig and cost a fortune. When he turns his head again, Sarah is spotlighted in the doorway.

She's wearing a uniform. Like General Beckman. Except . . . not.

Her olive-green miniskirt is so short it has more in common with a blindfold. He can envision blonde hairs curling from beneath it, and it blows his mind that he knows what that looks like. The thing must be a hundred percent spandex to detail those curves. Her head hair is up under her hat, she's probably wearing a bun, and her long legs reach all the way down to black spike heels that no military in the world would allow. The jacket is short, showing off her tiny waist. Her makeup is outrageous, more like Anna Woo than any four-star, but under the weight of all those stars and bars, she ought to be tilting to the left.

She couldn't get those decorations out of a gumball machine. They look real. They have to be Casey's.

Casey snaps to attention and salutes. Chuck stares, slack jawed, and he might be starting to drool when Casey jabs him with an elbow to make him salute, too. Sarah responds with a slash of her hand and ambles toward them, hips swaying to the beat.

"At ease, men." Chuck breathes gratefully. Her cherry lips purse as she considers them both, long looks up and down. "Strip."

Wait, he thought she was going to . . .

She raps out the order again. "I said, _strip_."

Casey's already going for it, or at least he's putting on his own show. His hands are flat against his belly, and Chuck can see now that his hardass black shirt isn't the usual cotton – it's soft and slippery, with a little bit of shine under the stage lights. Waste of silk on him, really, but God, those _hands_. They look even bigger against the dark background as they caress Casey's abs and chest, tweaking nipples into tiny lumps under the thin fabric. Long, thick fingers pluck at the buttons, much more dextrous than they ought to be.

By the time they make it to the jeans, Chuck can't look away.

He's never seen anybody masturbate. It seems slyer, more secretive – dirtier – than any act for two. He watches the big-knuckled thumbs spread triangles of black denim into a V and allow the captive cock to spring free. Commando. He should have known. The music is getting louder, or maybe that's only the blood pounding in his ears. One huge palm covers the head, stroking down slow, letting the red tip peek out. It looks more normal with the right-sized hand around it. Up. Down. Extra skin moves with Casey's tight fist.

Chuck wants it. He wants to touch it. With his mouth.

How crazy is that?

He doesn't know if they're surprised when he drops to the floor. He sure is. Casey's fucked him, and they've touched each other, but this is more up front than anything Chuck's done so far. Getting fucked is one thing. He doesn't do much but lie there and take it. Getting down on his knees and opening his mouth is so much scarier. Both of them tower over him now, but this guy's a freaking man-mountain, and he's waving a blunt instrument. "Casey, you – you walk softly and carry a big dick!"

"Hey." Casey's baritone is resonant with bare skin and rumpled sheets. "Give me your hands."

He wants hands, _too_? "For what?"

Like extra consonants, the eye roll is silent. Casey pulls Chuck's hands up to his hips. "If I push forward, you push back."

Jesus, Casey's promising not to hurt him with his monster cock. That's kind of . . . embarrassing, but nice.

"Suck it, soldier!" Sarah's voice is harsh with excitement, her eyes electric in the colored light.

"Time to obey orders, Chuck."

Sure, this has been around since penises, but he still thinks it'll be nasty. Girls only do it to please their boyfriends, right? Or else they do it for money. That's twice as nasty. He never got some of that until Jill wanted him on the dark side. Sarah does it, but she wants him in the land of the living. Nobody opens up for somebody's penis unless they want something, and, by the way, it's icky, that's why it's an insult, so honestly? It has to be pretty bad. And now Chuck is on his knees, ready to find out for himself.

That's dirty, too, and kind of . . . _exciting_ , in a way that unnerves him.

He's always liked the way Casey smells. His man parts are no exception. Down here, it's full-on male, and that's okay. Good, even. There's a hand still holding the big dick so it doesn't get loose and choke him all by itself. He can't help but giggle a little at that. The vision's so wrong that he leans in, kisses the knuckles. He reaches out with his tongue, running it between two fingers, but he can't get one in his mouth. It's the wrong angle.

"Glad your aim is -- better on the range," Casey says, and he's trying for sarcasm, but the soft break in his words says so much more. It means Casey wasn't expecting this, either. It means Chuck has the element of surprise. He decides he'd better go with that before Casey figures out what a lousy blowjob this is going to be. He follows his tongue up to the crown. It tastes like . . . not much, really, soft skin on the head that compresses between Chuck's lips with a hint of sea spray. Yeah, he can do this.

And then, for the first time ever, he hears Casey groan. It's a helpless, lips-on-my-cock noise that Chuck feels all the way down, from mouth to toes. It's kind of . . . yeah. _Yeah_.

Chuck's been hard since he saw Sarah in her military uniform, but he's seriously got hammerdick now.

He's got no style, no way to get some except by experience, so he's just trying to suck as hard as he can while not scraping teeth. That happened to him once; it's a real joy-killer. He slurps as much cock as he can and goes for it, drooling and making smacking noises. Good thing he always had a big mouth. He's so into it after he gets going that the palm on his jaw surprises him, and he resists when the hand tries to move him away. When the spurting starts, heavy, thick and a little sour, he revises that plan; discretion seems like the better part of valor.

He won't get any ribbons for his bravery, but overall, he did good, especially since he pulled away too late and Casey nailed him with splatter. He wipes off what he can. It's not exactly a reward, but it's proof, like the way Casey stumbles back and bangs up against the pole, his chest heaving. Sarah's face is red, and there might be a drop of sweat running down her cheek. The stiff hat covering her bound-up hair doesn't make her any less glamorous; she's still burning hot in the military uniform, maybe even moreso. She must be some kind of angel succubus; aren't there are vampire werewolves?

He gets up unsteadily to test his theory.

"Not so fast, Bartowski." Casey's right there, a fist in his collar; how did he get so close? "No touchie, no feelie."

"But . . . but it's my birthday!" Chuck's cock is screaming for attention. Without thinking, he grabs it through his slacks, hard, but that's no help.

Casey chuckles, the bastard. He already got his. "Settle down. It's time to enjoy your present."

Holy. Fucking. God. He's not thinking straight. Who could?

Casey, at least he suspects it was Casey, bought and installed thousands of dollars worth of equipment in a spare bedroom so Sarah could freak with a metal column. On the scale of strange shit, the scale that got recalibrated seven years ago with expulsion, two years ago with the intersect and yet again when he moved in here, it barely registers. Thing is, it's not for a mission, they aren't trying to make a play for a bunch of evil dudes. It's for him. Casey laid the groundwork and Sarah's getting her groove on straight up _for him_.

"Casey? I think I need that black thing."

There's flute coming in over the bass as Sarah begins to dance with the pole, and he could swear it's moving, too. There's no way Sarah's body could wrap around it like a snake. She has bones like everybody else, but he wouldn't know it. The jacket and skirt are gone. She's down to a tiger-striped thing that could be her own skin. It's freaky and sensual and sexy as all hell, and he's damned glad the ring is tight around him. Chuck reaches down to stroke himself, eyes glued to the color of her nipples and the way they stick out against whatever she's wearing.

Casey bumps his elbow. "Allow me."

The strong hand on him feels incredible. Chuck's not touching himself but he's being touched. Between the sex she has with the pole and the hard hand wrapped around his cock, the humid musk of Casey's desire and the cock pressing against his lower back, his temperature is rising. He can feel blood coming to his skin, sweat beading down his neck. The slow strobe of lights on Sarah's glowing body feel like his hands on her skin. The jungle rhythm of flute and drums make him almost dizzy with lust.

She's whirling, stretching, doing amazing things. She does the splits in the air, then wears the pole like she wears that outfit, and he knows she's getting off. Her round butt makes little circles as she rubs herself against it. Her face is ecstatic, and it's for him. Oh, God. When she finally does pole pirouettes down to the base and lays herself out on the floor with a triumphant smile, one stilettoed foot hooked around the pole, he doesn't hesitate. He's next to her before he thinks, on one knee and reaching.

Sarah thinks he's going to help her up, and raises her arms to him. Chuck lifts her like she's a child. "Jesus, Sarah." He moans when he touches the lines on her body. It's not clothing. It's some kind of paint. It's not sticky, it could _be_ her. She's heavy, slicked with girl-sweat, and so very hot to the touch. Tiger stripes. She's his tiger by the tail, he thinks, and his voice is rough when he says, "Fuck me."

The way she rode that pole, it's no surprise her legs are hooked around his waist in one move, and her thigh muscles were never a secret. She gropes for his cock and the firm grip makes him groan deep in his chest. She's got the tip in when her weight overbalances him and he takes a step back, crashes against the pole, and WHAM. The force of his hit drives her onto his cock and she cries out, but by the rake of nails across his shoulders, she's not in any pain.

Now that he's got some leverage, he keeps going, pushing her away and snatching her back to him, plundering that soft pink mouth for the sex noises that hide there. They're moving with the music, his hands tight on the damp skin of her butt. She's so wet, so hot, the heat of her is driving him mad. Being with her is everything he always thought it could be. She exploded into his life and took him over just the way she's doing now, digging her heels into his bare ass and slamming onto his cock. Her every move fills his head with bright lights.

The strain in his shoulders echoes the strain in his cock. He's not going to come soon, but that's even better. This is so right. Chuck feels powerful, in control like never before; the rising need in his body is on a thrill feedback loop. He goes higher and higher, lunging inside her body like he'll never do anything else. He never wants to do anything else. Just this, forever.

Her scream rings in his ears.

"Sarah!" But she's not hurt, she's coming, clenching onto him and digging in her fingers, spasms twisting her body. _He made Sarah come screaming_ , he feels like a _god_ , he wants to howl and pound his chest like Tarzan, and he pushes and pushes into her until she's limp in his arms. He can't hold her any longer and he's about to slide down the pole with her, but Casey's got her back, holding her up, easing her away.

"Close air support," he tells Chuck, who slides down the pole by himself anyway.

"You're the man."

"Hell, Bartowski, I'm beginning to think you're the man."

A couple years ago Ellie gave him a birthday party where she invited real girls for him to talk to. He doesn't need that anymore.

He's breathing hard, still lightheaded, watching as Casey carries Sarah to the bed, laying her down carefully, how the hell was the man that strong, anyway? Casey says to her, "You ready, gorgeous?" and she says, half out of it, "I'm as relaxed as I'll ever be." And . . . and . . . Casey runs a hand lovingly up her leg, starts kissing her ass. Chuck feels like a flashbang just went off in his head. That's what Casey does to Chuck, that's what Casey does when he's stretching him, except for the first time when he was so crazy and strung out on sex that he didn't even have bones left, and oh. My. God.

Casey's going to fuck her ass.

Chuck has got to see this, wants, _needs_ to know what it looks like, what it feels like for her. He can't believe she's doing it. He kind of thought . . . that it was just another way to let him know his place. Not a mean way, or one that didn't get him off, it did, in a big way, but . . . and not that fucking Sarah meant showing her where she belonged; this was different. Casey never thought about him the way Chuck used to think about Sarah.

Besides, Sarah's on top sometimes.

Not now. She's on her side and Casey's got her leg pushed up. He's leaning his face down to her ass and Chuck's right there, he's practically got his own face in her crotch, and God, it's just so damned _hot_. That agile tongue is licking her soft and open, working her, getting inside, getting her ready, and then Casey's got those magic fingers out that make him moan and sigh. It's working on Sarah, too, she's making those same noises in the back of her throat, husky and wanting.

He shoves up, the sheets trying to wrap around his damp skin and drag him back down to watch, finally making it to her lips. He kisses them, little kisses to soothe her. She tilts her head and moans into his mouth, eyes wide. It's amazing, he's holding her hands and she squeezes them, he can _feel_ Casey pushing in. He knows from the inside what that's like, he can tell by the sudden tension-hitch in her breath so he reaches down, rubs the heel of his hand into her sopping pussy.

"Yes, yes, that's, do that," she whimpers, and grinds back.

Casey's in her all the way now, stroking out and back, slow and easy and she's moving, hips tilting toward Casey and then shoving back on Chuck's hand. His other hand is in her hair, along her face. "That's it, sweetheart, it's going to be so good, you'll see, Casey's so strong and so hot, he'll make you feel so good, I promise."

The husky voice above his head says, "You still wanna do this?" Casey's so much taller than she is that he has to tilt his head down to speak into her ear.

"Yeah. Yeah, I want to."

"Okay, Chuck, you gonna help this beautiful woman get what she wants?"

"Anything." He's always been willing, never cared what it was.

"Then get off the bed."

That's not a welcome order, but . . . if it's for Sarah. He touches her lips with his again before he rolls away. Casey does a painstaking, convoluted move that leaves him sitting up with her on his lap, legs spread wide, holding her tight to his chest. Her head tips back against his shoulder, and she stares at Chuck. Blue eyes can smolder, she's living proof. He can't stop gawking mutely back at them. Casey nods at Chuck, gesturing with his chin, clear as mud.

"What?"

Casey laughs softly. "You need it engraved? The lady wants both of us."

"But she – you – " There's no possible way her girl parts could handle both of them, even in different . . . places. Casey's cock is so big it takes up all the space everywhere.

"I'm the backup," says Casey. "You're the main man. Now get over here, before she changes her mind."

"You'll do this for me, won't you?" Sarah's purring at him, her tiger stripes still black against her skin.

That's it.

Chuck's got his butt on the bed and his dick up underneath Sarah's pussy as fast as he can get his brain untied, moving as neatly and carefully as he can. He doesn't want to disturb the forces of the universe, and he sure as hell doesn't want to hurt Sarah. Casey's holding her high, but they're all three of them closer than they've ever been. His balls are tight against Casey's and he's angling himself up; his hand can't help squeezing his heavy, sticky cock on the way. He's tungsten hard. He doesn't even _consider_ taking the black thing off.

It's such a delicious ache.

When Casey shifts her a little and the tip of Chuck's cock touches her, it's like the first time ever. That happens all the time lately. It has to be real if it feels real. She's being lowered, she's still staring into his eyes. He can't move. There's not much room for him to move anyway, but his whole body is paralyzed as Casey slowly lets her sink down, neck corded with effort. She's opening over him, demanding surrender, his cock a hot-clenched millimeter from Casey's.

They're together inside her, it's insane, she's with them and they're in her, all three together. They're stroking her and each other, he's got a handful of Casey's bicep and a mouthful of her breast, all their sounds vibrating in him. He can smell them. Together.

Only with Casey's brute strength could they do this; Sarah's slender but she's no waif. She's panting now, they're all sweating, and their cocks rubbing her inner wall are making her whimper and wail. Chuck's hands are on her ass, too, now, helping to move her faster, higher, better, _more_. More touch, more together, more skin, more everything. They're grunting as they lift and they're all three crying out as she drops, sex music that Chuck hears with his whole body, and when she comes there's a crescendo because he can feel her contractions and Casey's, pumping up from where they're pressed so tightly together.

He can't stand it any more, he's got to come, needs to come with them _now_ , they can't leave him here alone. There's hardly hand-space in between. "Casey, lift." He can barely talk, but the message gets across; her sweet pussy sliding up, up, hot and wet over the tip and it's gone, the thing is gone, gone like his mind, oh jesus christ hallelujah lightning blows him apart as Casey lets her drop one last time.

Quiet kisses happen, but they don't even completely untangle before Chuck's wave of wild energy slips away and he's half asleep between the two of them.

It doesn't last long.

He blinks, blinded by glare. Spotlight, yeah. Sarah's muscular ivory behind is coming at him, all lit up, one of her knees on either side of his face. It's all he can see, momentarily transfixed by the white stripes on her skin. The lines of her thighs, the cleft of her butt, that delicate tight whorl that looked much too pretty to be what it was. He can't believe Casey was inside her, right there. Casey fucked her with that beautiful cock that's been in Chuck, its delicious pressure filling her up like it did him.

She's gracefully coming closer, slowly, so slowly, then stopping . . . and he finally understands she's kissing Casey, those obscene noises -- and oh, God he was so hard _again_ , how could that even happen? as he watches one of Casey's hands, huge and tanned, make a fist in her tangled blonde hair. The curve of her back with its low central valley went up and up, crossed only by an equally tanned, corded arm that could lift her over both their heads.

The spotlight picks out the glow of her reddened pussy, damp and needy, a little swollen and begging for attention. He'd been there, he'd been _so_ there just a few minutes ago -- cock easing into the vise of her body, shoving in and up, rubbing the soft folds until they were plump. It's like a painting he saw in an art gallery once, pink flower with a beautiful red center, some famous artist from Georgia. He cups a strong thigh with one hand and touches the pretty petals with the other, rubs them between the pads of his fingers.

Sarah shudders all over. Her groan harmonizes with Casey's deeper one. "Chuck," she says, her voice muffled against Casey's neck. "Chuck, _now_." The sweetness of her is all around him as she lowers herself to his face.

 

 _Day 22, Post Apocalypse: Bad Day At Black Imports_

It's been good to have a week's breather. If only all their missions went down as easy as Stenholm.

This one sure as hell isn't.

It's so far south he can feel penguins walk over his grave. Sarah's unconscious from a blow to the head and he wants to be teary-eyed and holding her hand until she wakes up and tells him to grow a set, but Casey is cuffed to exposed pipes and having the crap smacked out of him. Chuck drags Sarah behind a dumpster and stashes his jacket under her head. He rescues her silenced SIG P239 Tac pistol from an oil-polluted puddle, flicking off the safety and tucking it into his waistband. Then he gets a firm, if slightly damp, grip on her tranquilizer gun.

Getting into the abandoned warehouse is the easy part; the hard part is getting across the rickety floor. He needs to get close enough to the office to _do something_. The Fulcrum guy is having far too much fun taunting Casey, occasionally shocking him with a cattle prod. A cattle prod - could these guys be any more stereotypical bad guys? If there had been a railroad line nearby, Chuck is sure that this jerk would have Casey tied to the tracks. The utterly ludicrous mental image of Major John Casey as Sweet Polly Purebred buoys him. It gets him across the floor with only one loud creak that coincides with Casey’s next scream.

Now that he's flattened against the wall outside the shattered office door, glass flung across the floor, he can see Casey much better. He doesn't look too bad - or he wouldn't, if he weren't still trembling and jerking spasmodically. It looks an awful lot like Casey when he comes, his eyes rolling up a little, his mouth half-open, his fingers clenched into claws. Only it looks nothing like Casey when he comes, because he is in agony and he's alone, and Chuck is all the way out here and has no fucking idea of what to do. He only knows he cannot, will not, let that guy hurt Casey again.

The Fulcrum guy is talking, waving the hand that doesn't have the cattle prod in it, and Chuck is thinking hard and fast. Weirdly, there's no flash for this guy - maybe he's a freelancer, or a newbie who wasn't in the database yet. Chuck feels eyes on him and jerks back to himself.

Casey is watching him.

From his angle on the floor against the radiator, Casey can see Chuck past the Fulcrum guy’s shoulder. His eyes slide to Chuck’s left, obviously looking for Sarah. Chuck shakes his head ‘No’ then tips it to tell him that Sarah is outside. Casey blinks an affirmative, then snarls something to distract his captor, who pokes him with the prod, although there is no jolt this time. The guy is talking again, mumbling, really, and waving his hands in the air.

Chuck looks a question at Casey and somehow, Casey tells him that it’s all up to him now. There's the barest curve to one side of his lip, the side that isn’t bloody, and he nods his head a fraction. Then he does the one thing Chuck would never have expected in a million years – he relaxes. Chuck sees it and almost misses his shot because he's still trying to process what John Casey has told him with only a blink, a smile and a nod.

 _Get my ass out of here, will you? You can do this. I trust you._

And Chuck does it. The guy raises that damned cattle prod again and Chuck shoots him in the back with three of Sarah’s nasty-ass sleep darts, right through the door. He crashes to the floor, the prod clattering harmlessly off the pipes. Now Casey is smiling for real, his shark-grin.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles, and Chuck hears, Nice job.

Chuck kneels next to him and fumbles the skeleton key-ring that Sarah gave him out of his fatigues pocket. The two of them, Sarah and Casey, had spent a long, rainy weekend teaching him how to use them on every kind of lock they could find, rewarding every successfully picked lock with filthy sexual acts, some of them in public. He had very fond memories of that weekend and is almost grinning as he starts fiddling with the cuff locked around Casey’s left wrist. Casey smells like fear and pain and piss – the multiple shocks had loosened his bladder a long time ago – and he tastes like lightning when Chuck frees his right wrist and Casey grabs him by the neck and pulls him close, kissing him like a drowning man.

Of course, Casey crawls over and does something evil to his captor, something Chuck knows he shouldn’t watch if he ever wants to sleep again. For the Fulcrum agent's sake, Chuck hopes he's dead now. He exits the room, watchful, leaving a slowly-growing pool of crimson behind him. He waits with the now-groggy Sarah, tucked behind the dumpster, checking her over for injuries and holding her close, until Casey comes to get them.

 

 _Day 27, Post-Apocalypse: Entering And Breaking_

Chuck punches in the security code on his key fob. It doesn't make a noise . . . because the system's not set. The external security is always, _always_ on. He looks around warily, trying to assess the situation. Sarah's car is in the driveway. At the end of the day, that means she's home. It could be that she forgot the security, but he knows neither of his people ever forget. And he's been looking over his shoulder ever since last week's mission. Being Casey's only backup was . . . bad.

There's no visible sign of intrusion, nothing and nobody as he rounds the back of the house on his knees. He doesn't have a weapon. He dials Sarah, then Casey, hoping for a reality check. Both go straight to voicemail. What if somebody's in there? Bad guys don't reset the security system. What if somebody's in there with _Sarah_? A chill touches him. He's got to know; he can't just wait around out here. Crouched low, he cracks the door silently, listening.

There's a struggle going on, close enough to hear -- slapping noises, cries, grunts.

Careful, he's got to be careful; getting caught trying to save them will make everything that much worse. He's started to supplement his luck with some common sense. With his shoulder on the ground he pushes the door open far enough to cover a narrow angle. He peers as far as he can around the door without moving it another inch. There, on the floor, are Sarah's compact two-tone P238 and her KelTec P-3AT and a -- a knife. It's clean; no blood. Oh, God, Sarah's here. She's here. They got her knives.

A glance upward shows a pattern of knives buried hilt-deep in the wallboard near the door. They must have surprised her from behind as she walked into the foyer. There's a throwing star stuck in the fifteen-foot ceiling.

He's lucky they taught him to shoot. At least he can put 20 out of 25 standing shots inside the three concentric circles. His hand is way too big for the P-3AT. He snags it anyway. It's the closest. Sliding in just enough for a wider view of the room, he stops, momentarily confused. He can see them now. It's Sarah and Casey, nobody else; they're on the stairs, and at first he thinks they're fighting.

It takes him far too long to understand that they're not.

She's a step above Casey, facing away. He drives into her so hard the strain makes the wooden railing under her hands creak. She's shoving back with all her strength. He's surprised that even Casey's weight and stance can keep him from toppling backwards. They're blistering hot together. He knew it. His stomach is already fighting to get away. His cock is rock-hard in the blink of an eye, and he thinks he might throw up.

He knew it would happen. They've finally figured out they can have each other. He just doesn't know what's going to happen now. They are so right together, two sleek, glossy wild creatures. Spies are marching two by two, hurrah, he thinks crazily.

His head is spinning. He can smell their sex from across the room. They're steaming with it. His mouth is watering even as he grits his teeth. Sarah has her ninja schoolgirl skirt flipped up as Casey powers into her from behind. Her sparkly black spandex top -- no straps, no bra – she could tumble free with the next thrust. Was she spying from a streetcorner?

From here he can see how hard her nipples are. The knife belt is still strapped around her thigh. Sarah's gasps and Casey's grunts echo in the stairwell. Neither one notices Chuck.

Casey's muscular ass flexes, pale in the dusty half-light of the stairs. His black camo pants are around his knees, his feet spread too far to let them drop. He's wearing a thin black t-shirt so tight Chuck can see the rock and roll of long back muscles. They could be Bad Cheerleaders. Casey never pulled Sarah's panties off. They're still on, he just shoved them aside and went for it. Black lace is taut against his cock, must be scraping him raw. Chuck thinks he can feel it on his own cock when he stands up, still shaking, unzips, and pulls himself out past the sharp, tiny teeth.

He has the presence of mind to lock the door.

He might as well get this one last thing from them. It's all going away, everything he thought maybe they had, that he had with them. Soon all he'll have is imagination. He wants this, too. He doesn't even care that he's jerking off to the only two people he can count on as they fuck each other toward screaming ecstasy, fuck each other farther away from him. His own hand feels like a stranger's, like he couldn't possibly be doing this. It's a disembodied hand getting him off to the most beautiful, terrible sight he's ever tried to avoid thinking about.

It's sordid and disgusting that he's standing here watching something so private, something between the two of them. He shouldn't do this. From the beginning, he knew his handlers had something together. They're two of a kind, don't need an extra. But . . . they are still Sarah and Casey, the only solid anchors in his fucked-up world, and he loves them. Casey's perfect military hair is standing up with sweat, Sarah's ass is pink along the elastic of her panties from the slap of Casey's thighs.

It's over in only a few hard strokes. Chuck comes when Sarah does, his groan harmonizing weirdly with her shriek, and he's already wishing he'd turned tail and run. Hell, he wishes he'd never come home tonight, gone out and had a beer, maybe picked up a real girl somewhere. He could've done that, right? Then he wouldn't even know. There's been no expectation on anybody's part, except maybe his. Nobody said, "I love you." Nobody said, "Stay."

They didn't have to. He still belongs to them. He's still the prisoner.

He's not thinking too clearly. No man with a dick in his hand does. That's why he's still watching. Or maybe it's because Casey looked over his shoulder when Chuck groaned, and the sight of Chuck watching -- standing there with his purple dick in his hand, come spilled on the black tile -- did something to Casey, pulled his mouth open, made his hips stutter and crash hard again into Sarah. Made him yell his victory.

His come is sticky and cooling in his hand. Sarah's fully dressed with heels, and Casey is reckless in the slam of his orgasm. He's ashamed that the sight of them is still hot, even when they're already receding from him, back into the unreality of their cover-stories. Despite all that, he loves Casey, he loves Sarah. He can admit it now, finally, after all is said and done, because . . . it is, isn't it? And how fucked up is it that he only realizes it now, looking at the two of them utterly wrecked, Spy Vs. Spy hentai?

He never really believed the sex they gave him meant anything. He tried not to believe it, anyway. They never lied to him with their mouths, but they lied to him with their bodies every time. They said, "You are beautiful." They said, "I want you." They said, "I love you." But he always knew he could be anybody, he could be Carina or Bryce or whoever had the bad luck to be their secret. The last few weeks, he's tried not to think about that. What now?

What about the sex they give each other? What does that mean?

From his boneless sprawl on the stairs – and a boneless Casey sizzles Chuck's brain into curly fries -- Casey says, "Hey, Chuck. Glad you could come."

His goofy grin is like nothing Chuck's ever seen, not on Casey's face. He never looked like that for Chuck.

Sarah's swaying before she collapses. "Come here."

Her voice is wet sugar, heavy, gritty and sweet. She lowers herself to one hip next to Casey. He follows his dick to her voice. There's no other option. She curls a finger at him, and he leans down. Sarah drags him in for a kiss, sloppy, hungry, as if she's been starving for him alone. And Casey, damn. Casey is taking his wet hand and slowly drawing hot lines on it with his tongue, lapping away at Chuck's spunk, a lazy lion. He's the other big cat. The whole time those bright blue eyes are on his face, on Sarah's, hanging on their kiss.

They're consuming each other, he and Sarah. He's down now, eased by Casey's hands onto the stairs with them. It just gets more insane when he feels Casey's lips on his cock. It's still half-hard and trapped in the open fly, the button secured above it. It's weird and uncomfortable and the only place he wants to be. Between them, they've twisted Chuck; there's a stair riser digging in his ribs. He doesn't care; Sarah's sucking on his tongue and Casey is sucking on his dick. His brain gibbers at him _John Casey sucks dick_ before the inner monologue shuts off.

"Chuck." Casey breathes against his revived erection, drying the last molecules of Chuck's come along with his own spit. "I want you to fuck me. Will you do that for me?" His name in Casey's rough voice rippled over him, but it was that last bit that really got his attention. Oh, a post-orgasmic Casey is a happy, happy Casey. He's also flushed, practically glowing with sweat and essence-of-Sarah and he wants . . . he wants Chuck to . . .

Chuck makes a noise that Casey takes for a yes. It's definitely a yes.

"Come on. I'm not letting you fuck my ass on the stairs, Bartowski. Not unless she's got a set of knee pads under that skirt. I'm guessing . . . no." Casey reaches over Chuck's body and smooches a kiss onto Sarah's plump lips. They're still pink with that shiny lipstick she wears, some of it left on Chuck's mouth. Sarah and Casey never got to the kissing part today. "You're good, darlin', but not that good."

The arms and legs aren't working. He's not sure he could make it on his own, but they're hauling him up, body movers with a mission. Sarah's giggling at the thought of Casey using her self-warming lubricant _to get himself ready for Chuck_ . . . self-warming?

"It's cinnamon," she whispers to him, yanking on his hand with her sticky one, the one sloppily washed by John's tongue.

"Sure, you think that's funny, but you didn't know I jerk off with it all the time."

Casey needs to jerk off, by himself? That's just . . . wrong. Besides, when does he have the time? Chuck couldn't have imagined Casey more smug -- in a bizarrely cute way -- than after a big dose of stair sex, pumping Sarah so hard they rocked the house. He's damned smug now.

"I'm going to do that," Chuck interrupts. Because there is a little part of him that is still pissed that he walked in on that scene. That isn't convinced this isn't goodbye. That wants to fuck John Casey over.

"Jerk off with . . . "

"No." Then there's a larger part of him, not just the part hanging out of his pants and firming up at the thought, that just wants to fuck John Casey. To bury himself in that body and to take and give and never come out again. "I'm going to use that lube on you, and I'm going to work my fingers into you. I'm going to do it. Get you ready for me." He grabs Casey's face for a quick kiss. He feels like he's drunk.

Casey is just letting him, letting him kiss his lips and say dirty things. His mouth is slack even though he's half-holding both Chuck and Sarah. He looks a little dazed. Like Chuck is the one that's doing this to him; like he got all the wildness out of him by fucking Sarah on the stairs. What's left for Chuck is this, a John Casey with the hard edges worn off, or at least folded over.

"Yeah," he says, and it's a deep, breath-stealing sound. "Yeah. Do me. I want it like that." His eyes are a little unfocused and they glint strangely in the golden afternoon light of the bedroom.

Chuck is afraid to ask, but he does anyway. "Are you on something?"

Where Sarah drags up a dry tone, he can't imagine. "He's just sex-drunk."

"Fuck-stupid," Casey says with a chortle. "You've seen her cunt. You know what that's like."

He does know what her cunt is like; it's like heaven on earth. Hot, tight, wet, so prettypink and it tastes so good. Maybe Casey can be forgiven for that silly grin, just a little, when he's been mainlining Sarah's pussy. Chuck has a sudden insight into how Casey could wind up cuffed to beds by rogue agents, if this is how he gets.

Sarah reads his mind. "Yeah, Carina knew him."

Chuck doesn't ask how, exactly, Carina came to know him. He doesn't want to think about being the next one in line for Casey, another trial package.

"She doesn't know me like you two. And you can bet both your asses that I'll never go near that crazy bitch again."

"Make sure you don't." Then Sarah's tone hardens in some indecipherable way. "If you do, I'll shoot you myself." Chuck feels like he should add something here, because the thought of Casey ever being that close to Carina makes his fists clench.

"I, Christ, you know I – " Casey falters. "Both of you. You're dynamite and he's the fuse. No way in hell I walk away from this." Casey's words are nearly slurred and he is staring down at the bed, looking strangely shy for a man who is half-dressed and asking another man to fuck him in front of his lover. "Don't need Carina. Don't want anyone else. Ever." He says it with a surety that sounds like handcuffs around their wrists, chains on their ankles . . . rings on their fingers.

Chuck starts to take Casey's shirt off, carefully, like he doesn't want to spook him. Spook him, that's a good one. "I'm glad," Chuck says softly. The thin, skin-tight t-shirt, looking oddly innocent and unmarked despite what it's been through, peels off as Casey leans forward a little, laying bare his solid chest. Jeez, Sarah must have been just as wild to get to him. There are six scratches blazed down Casey's pecs, three on each side. "Because no matter what happens, we're going to be here."

He's speaking for Sarah and hopes she doesn't flip out -- she's biting her lip and not saying anything -- but it looks like Casey needs some reassurance, and after what he offered, he deserves it. Naked in her black lace, Sarah gives him a big-eyed look and nods uncertainly. That's as much go-ahead as Chuck needs. He says, "We're going to be here, and we're going to keep your ass in one piece so we can have our way with it. I'm getting Sarah a strap-on tomorrow. And we expect the same from you."

"I don't need a strap-on. Brought my own to the party, remember?" Casey leers at him.

"I won't forget."

The sight of Casey on his knees, ass high, could make him forget their names. The cinnamon lube is doing its duty around the tight circle of Casey's hole, and they both make low noises when two of Chuck's fingers press in. Sarah's watching avidly, her hand inching into her panties like she doesn't even know it. There's a sharp breath and muscles contract around his fingers.

"Easy with that, I, it's . . . been a long time."

"Yeah? How long?"

"Don't worry. If you got it, I can take it."

Never.

Holy God.

"I don't want you to take it. I want you to love it. Like I do. It's not a fucking endurance test."

Sarah laughs at that. He wants to be annoyed at her, but it was funny.

"I . . . there's nothing you would do to me that I wouldn't love."

Sarah tilts Casey's face to her lips and covers it with soft touches; his cheeks, chin, eyelids. Chuck finds that hot spot with his fingers and Casey moans, needy, going for Sarah's mouth almost as if he's in pain and she can save him. After watching them nearly eat each other alive on the stairs not twenty minutes ago, Chuck is astonished at the tenderness she gives him, at how much Casey needs that right now.

Chuck would be worried that he's doing the right thing, but he's been taught by a master, and his fine motor coordination was always excellent. When Casey takes Sarah's mouth, it's like he gives in, lets go. Everything he's got, everything he is, is free for the taking. All lying there, like treasure washed up on a beach, everything he'd kept hidden for so long.

Loyalty, love, need. And it's for them, only for them.

No one will ever get to hurt Casey again. No one will put that used-up Kleenex look on Sarah's face ever again. Chuck vows it to himself.

These people trust him. Sarah hasn't made any commitments, verbal or otherwise, but he thinks she doesn't know how. It's like she was never taught the language of them as a kid. Chuck has their trust, and it's not misplaced. He has the balls and the skills and the love that, combined with theirs, will keep the three of them together and whole. He still belongs to them, like he thought before, but they belong to him, too. It's a good deal - they keep him alive, he keeps them human.

That's why they circled the wagons around him, tried to pull him out of his depression any way they could. He thought the sex was meaningless – then, he thought everything was meaningless -- but it's not. Not with these people, not time after time.

They're counting on each other. Hell, Casey just married them for it.

As he slides slowly into the grip of Casey's hot body, he knows this is the only way to live his life. Nothing else could ever compare. No one he knows will understand, not really. Not Morgan, not Ellie . . . hell, most of the time, Chuck isn't sure he gets what they have. But he knows now that he won't give it up.

They're on their sides, him behind Casey, every thrust shoving Casey's cock into Sarah's cinnamon-wet hand. She's twisting it in time with Casey's harsh gasps, her face close to his, sharing his pleasure, sharing his mouth. Casey has a hand between her legs, not rubbing but letting Chuck's movement help push him into her. When Casey comes, their mouths are sealed together, muffling his cries.

Chuck's trying not to bruise him permanently, hands hard on Casey's hips, but about now he doesn't have much control, least of all over his fingers, and he's not even sure Casey will care. The man wears his wounds stoically, with a sort of understated pride that's two hairs short of a shirt.

Sarah's hips undulate against Casey's hand, and it's plenty big enough to take care of her needs. Chuck gets a hand on her ass, drags her in closer. She leans up over one big shoulder with what feels like the last of her strength. It's less like a kiss and more like pressing their open mouths together and panting each other's breath, but it's damned good and Chuck loves it. It has the wild flavor of the beautiful animal she is, and when she comes, she's radiant, lovelier than he's ever seen her.

Hold on, hold on, he thinks, not wanting to give up an instant of this, and he's not ready for the upward spiral when it comes. He'd swear he rises, sees the three of them tucked together on the bed as the shock waves burst through him, like he's looking down, and they are glorious together. He is beautiful with them.

None of them have the strength left to care that they're a mess, covered in come and sweat and God knows what those two came home coated in. He thinks Casey's toast already. He barely has the presence of mind to pull carefully out. He remembers his first time very well, but there's hardly a murmur. Before he falls asleep he mumbles, "You'll have to tell me what happened."

"Tomorrow," she promises, and he likes that it isn't a limited-time offer.

He's not a prisoner any more.

He just brokered a deal to join Sarah and Casey as a full partner, along with all the terror, wonder, and jungle love it entails. Life is new again, like it was back when he started Stanford, back when he had hopes and dreams and nothing had limits. For the first time since he came to this house, for the first time he can remember, he feels free.

 

 

The End


End file.
